


How Tight I'm Holding On

by EtLaBete



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtLaBete/pseuds/EtLaBete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve looks for Bucky. Instead, Bucky finds him, and he has some questions as well as some answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written to Cold War Kids' Hot Coals... as well as All This Could Be Yours. But really, the entire Hold This Home album.

Steve is released from the hospital three days after the warehouse explosion. He was lucky to escape with only three broken ribs, a smattering of dark, angry bruises, a broken clavicle, and some nasty whiplash, and thankfully, he’s already started to heal. Clint was not so lucky, and they anticipate the fractures in his ankle will lay him out for a good three months at least. The rest of the team is a bit worse for wear, but it could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. 

SHIELD sends a car to the hospital for him. Tony offered him his usual floor in the tower, the one he decorated with patriotic throw pillows and bedspreads, and Steve declined, wanting to just pass out in his own apartment. He loves his team, but he can never relax in the Tower, not really. JARVIS is hooked up in every room even though the cameras aren’t, and Steve never knows when someone is going to bang on his door. And by someone, he means Tony, because Tony can’t leave anyone alone. 

No, he would rather be home.

He isn’t sure when the small Brooklyn apartment started to feel like home, except it does. He’s lived in a few places over the last three years: the Tower after his nosedive from the helicarrier; dozens of hotels across the US and Europe in a search that just piled up more questions and hollowed out his chest; Sam’s apartment in DC; SHIELD housing, when SHIELD finally got back on it’s feet. Steve considered staying in DC, too. He liked living near Sam, who also refused to live in the tower, liked living in the pit of American politics, and he considered finding a new place that wasn’t full of bullet holes, but who was he kidding. Brooklyn has always been home, always will be home, and it just seemed right. 

The car stops in front of his building, a three-story brownstone with a ivy crawling up the facade. He limps up the stairs, opens the front door, and then waves at the SHIELD agent who doesn’t pull away until he’s inside the hall. The hike up to his third floor flat takes him longer than usual, his battered body aching and stiff, and he’s pretty sure he won’t even manage a shower before he falls into bed.

Except even clouded with exhaustion, Steve knows something isn’t right when he steps through the threshold into his apartment. He can feel it, like the air has been disturbed, cooler than it should be after the windows being closed for the last two weeks he was away. He closes the door behind him, not bothering to tiptoe. He wants whoever it is, if they’re still there, to think he doesn’t notice, to give him enough time to get to a weapon because he’s unarmed.

“Were we lovers?”

He spins around and stares at the darkened living room. The black silhouette on his couch doesn’t move, and Steve doesn’t see the glint of a gun, so slowly, he walks forward until he’s at the light switch. He flips it. 

Bucky sits with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed, long, wavy hair hanging in front of his face. He’s dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, the metal fingers of his left hand linked through the flesh and blood of his right. He isn’t holding a weapon, but Steve isn’t stupid. He’d bet his shield that Bucky had at least a few knives and guns on him. 

Steve hasn’t seen him since the helicarrier. He’d looked. God, he’d looked. Natasha called in favors, Tony had JARVIS sifting—illegally— through camera feeds for facial recognition, Sam traveled continents with him, and the only thing they found to prove that Bucky was out there were the decimated Hydra bases he’d left in his wake. Steve let that keep him hopeful because why would Bucky be tearing Hydra down if he wasn’t remembering? 

After a year of searching, though, Sam finally managed to pull him home. SHIELD found it’s footing again, and Steve was kept busy with missions, with Hydra resurgence, with super-powered sociopaths who liked to blow up things. He was kept busy, and he finally allowed himself to let go the slightest bit, allowed himself to admit that even if Bucky was remembering, maybe Bucky didn’t want to be found. 

It was like losing him all over again, but he didn’t look back, and he wonders now if it was the biggest mistake he’s ever made aside from not grabbing Bucky’s hand when he fell from the train.

“Were we lovers?” Bucky growls again. 

The shock of finding Bucky in his living room fades away and is replaced by the gut-wrenching question hanging awkwardly between them like a bomb ready to go off. Steve swallows around the lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. 

Bucky’s fingers clutch even more tightly to each other, the knuckles of his right hand bleaching white.

“Answer me,” he snaps. 

“No,” Steve murmurs. “No, we weren’t.”

Bucky finally looks up at him, chin dimpled by the frown tugging at his lips. Dark circles shadow his eyes and scruff shadows his chin. The creases in his forehead look like they couldn’t be smoothed away for anything, like his face has been stuck in this unhappy expression that tears Steve apart. 

“I remember,” Bucky begins, pauses, then starts again. “I remember being in a bed with you. You were different. Smaller. I remember it.”

Steve nods. The movement hurts his neck, sends pain shooting up into his jaw, but he refuses to flinch. “Yeah. Didn’t always used to be this big. We shared a bed in the winter. We couldn’t afford to keep the place heated and keep ourselves fed, too.”

Bucky stares at him like he’s trying to see through him. “But we weren’t…”

Steve smiles sadly. “No.”

“Then why,” Bucky snarls, and he stands suddenly. “Why do I feel this way, then? Tell me why.”

Steve blinks, heart hammering in his chest, and it’s such an odd sensation because it takes a lot of exercise to get his pulse racing, and he’s just standing here, just standing here and watching Bucky come apart at the seams. “I don’t understand,” he says. 

Bucky walks— no, stalks towards him, hands fisted at his sides. He’s staring at Steve from beneath his lashes, still impossibly long and dark, and there’s something dangerous glinting in his eyes, but Steve doesn’t understand it. It’s not the same look he got when Bucky proclaimed, “You’re my mission” three years ago, wasn’t even the horrified look he gave him as Steve professed, “I’m with you ’til the end of the line” before he fell into the water. 

No, this is something different, and it makes Steve’s heart beat even faster.

Steve backs up as Bucky approaches, something in him telling him to retreat, and he continues to do so until his back is against the wall. Bucky’s Adam’s apple bobs and his nostrils flare. He stops when he’s in Steve’s space, the toes of their shoes touching. He raises his left hand, the metal glinting in the artificial light, and presses it against the wall to the side of Steve’s head.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he growls. His pupils are blown wide, the dusky blue hardly visible. “I can’t stop it, and I’m tired of fighting. I’m so tired.”

“Buck—“ 

Bucky interrupts him with a kiss.

It isn’t gentle. It isn’t romantic. It’s desperate and bruising, all tongue and teeth and spit, and Steve gasps against him, then moans when Bucky bites into his bottom lip and sucks. Any distance still between their bodies is erased as Bucky takes another step forward, slotting his thigh between Steve’s legs and pressing it up into his groin. His metal hand slides from the wall into Steve’s hair and he tugs so he can more easily lick into Steve’s mouth.

“Bucky, wait,” Steve breathes when Bucky pulls back only to direct an onslaught of biting kisses to Steve’s jaw. 

“Tired of waiting, too,” Bucky says against his skin, laves his tongue over the pulse point in Steve’s neck, and grinds against him when Steve shudders. 

“You’ve got it all wrong, Buck.” Steve finally manages to grab hold of his arms, and the feel of muscle beneath one hand and metal beneath the other throws Steve off, but only for a moment. “We weren’t lovers. You never… you never looked at me that way.”

Bucky stops, raises his head, and stares at Steve. His lips are red and his eyes are glassy. “No,” he says vehemently. “That isn’t true.” 

Steve can’t even speak. Emotion wells up inside of him, closes up his throat. He’d always loved Bucky, not just as a friend or brother. He’s loved Bucky, wanted Bucky ever since he was a kid, but it hadn’t been requited. Of that he was sure. He was sure. 

Except everything he thinks he knows goes to shit when Bucky says, “I’ve remembered things. Not everything, not in complete pieces, but I remember you, and I remember tracing your features with my fingers while you were in bed. You were thin, so thin, and your skin burned. I remember kissing your temples even though you were covered in sweat.” Bucky reaches up with his right hand and trails his fingers down Steve’s cheek, his thumb catching on Steve’s bottom lip. 

“You took care of me,” Steve croaks. “I was sick a lot, before, and you took care of me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Wasn’t just that. I remember women. I remember wishing they were you while we danced, while I watched you sit in the corner and try to smile at me. I remember wishing it was you when I took them to bed.” 

Steve’s head is swimming, and if Bucky wasn’t pressed against him so tightly, he thinks he’d probably fall over, legs turned to jelly. “You—I— I didn’t know.”

“And if you did?” Bucky demands, and he grips Steve’s jaw, forces him to look Bucky in the eye. “If you did, what would you have done?”

There’s gravel in his throat, and Steve’s barely able to speak around it. “You were it for me.” 

Bucky kisses him again. This time, it’s gentle, his hand cupping Steve’s jaw, the other holding onto his hip, metal fingers stroking. Steve stays frozen for several long seconds, and then something in him snaps because super soldier or not, he’s still human, and his hands come up to curl around Bucky’s waist. He surges forward, pressing into Bucky, lips slotting perfectly against his, and Bucky makes this desperate, relieved sound in the back of his throat. He and Steve are touching from knee to chest now, and Bucky tilts his head so he can slip his tongue between Steve’s lips and trail it along his teeth until Steve opens up for him. 

They kiss like that for what seems like forever until Bucky’s hand trails beneath the hem of Steve’s shirt and Steve winces. Bucky stops immediately, pulls back enough to study Steve’s face.

“Broken ribs,” Steve murmurs sheepishly.

Bucky nods even though something angry flashes across his face. 

“You should see the other guy.”

Bucky’s lips quirk ever so slightly, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low, tentative. “I’m not him, you know. Not the man you remember, not completely. I only got bits and pieces, and I don’t think I’ll ever be him after everything that’s happened.”

Steve leans forward until their foreheads touch. “I know. I’m not the same man you remember, either. Lot’s changed.”

“Maybe not,” Bucky murmurs, his hand splaying over Steve’s sore ribs even though he barely touches. “I got a few memories of you coming back bloodied and bruised when you were small, too. Always had your nose in other people’s business.” 

The urge to cry hits Steve hard and fast. He swallows around it, and his hands shake as he wraps them around Bucky, pulling him close. He doesn’t give a damn about his ribs, would break all of them if it meant holding Bucky. “I remember you being a smartass.” 

Bucky sighs out a laugh, a rush of hot breath against Steve’s lips. “Yeah, maybe not everything’s changed.”

Steve slides his hands up, and he feels the bulge of weapons tucked away, but he doesn’t care. He ignores them and cups Bucky’s face in his hands and presses their lips together. “Stay for the night,” he whispers against him. “Please.” 

Bucky nods and— Steve’s heart stops— god, he smiles. 

They manage to make their way to the bedroom with slow, careful steps because they don’t let go of each other, not until the door closes and Buck undresses Steve first, taking care around his torso and collarbone. He presses his lips to the bruises and scrapes, rubs the pad of his thumb over Steve’s nipple and sucks at the soft spot behind his ear. When Steve’s standing there in just his boxers, Bucky finally looks at him.

“Yes,” Steve breathes, and Bucky obeys, slowly pulling down his underwear. 

Bucky’s eyes trail down the length of his body. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are parted ever so slightly. “Ah, Stevie,” he murmurs, and the nickname makes heat pool in Steve’s chest until it’s hard to breathe. Instead, he reaches out and tugs at the lapels of Bucky’s jacket, and after a smirk, Bucky complies. 

He strips slowly, and Steve watches, mesmerized. Bucky moves fluidly, muscles ripple. He tosses the jacket into the corner of the room, toes off his boots, and then grabs the hem of his shirt. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, he levels Steve with a stare. 

“It’s…” He licks his lips, voice gravelly. “It’s not pretty,” he finally manages. “The scars—“

“I don’t care,” Steve whispers. 

Except he’s a liar. When Bucky finally pulls his shirt over his head, exposing taut, lean muscle, Steve’s stomach bottoms out. There’s a thick, knotted rope of scar tissue between healthy skin and the metal arm, and a lattice of other, smaller scars, less ugly but there nonetheless, are scattered across his chest and arms. His body is the same body that Steve remembers except harder, more muscled, and god, so battered and worn. Anger rivals Steve’s arousal.

Bucky looks down, stares at the carpet between them, lips pressed together in a grim line. “I told you,” he says, almost snarling. Steve can see the walls being built back up quickly. 

“Oh, Buck,” Steve sighs and steps forward. 

Bucky flinches when Steve reaches out to trail his fingertips down the scarring, and he whispers, “Oh, god,” completely wrecked, when Steve bends down to press kiss after kiss to the mangled flesh. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve breathes against him. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch you. I’m so sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” Bucky replies gruffly, and when Steve’s teeth skim the sensitive tissue, Bucky whines.

Steve carefully removes the weapons— three impressive blades and a pistol— from Bucky’s waistband, then begins to unbutton his jeans. Bucky is already hard, straining against the denim, and he sighs when Steve pulls down the zipper. He steps out of his jeans and grins wolfishly when Steve tsks at the ankle holster before removing it and tossing that onto the nightstand, too. The grin is so very Bucky and it makes Steve’s stomach flip around. 

“You come here looking for a fight?” he asks.

Bucky shrugs, but the smile still plays on his lips. “Wasn’t sure, really. All I knew was I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you, and it was kinda pissin’ me off.”

Steve snorts and then slides his thumbs into the waistband of Bucky’s briefs. The other man hisses out a breath and arches into it.

“Please,” Bucky whispers, the word breaking. 

Steve peels the briefs off of him, and then he has Bucky naked in front of him, chest heaving. His cock is already leaking, the tip glistening with pre-come, and Steve immediately takes him in hand. Bucky groans at the contact, thrusting his hips towards it, and Steve begins to slowly move his hand up and down the length. Bucky reaches out with both holds and places them on Steve’s shoulder, but then snatches his left hand away. 

Before he can withdraw completely, Steve grabs the metal wrist with his free hand and settles it back on his shoulder, pressing the cool fingers into his skin. “All of you or none of you,” he says roughly. 

Bucky swallows and nods, and when Steve withdraws his hand, Bucky leaves his where it is. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Steve admits, still lazily jerking Bucky off. 

Bucky says nothing, just uses his grip of Steve’s shoulders to steer them towards the bed. He waits until Steve’s knees hit the mattress, and then he pushes forward, forcing him to sit, and he hisses at the angle change of Steve’s hand on his dick, the tug. His left hand moves down from Steve’s shoulder, metal fingertips trailing cold down his bicep, the crook of his elbow, his forearm, until Bucky reaches his hand. He pulls gently, and Steve lets go.

And then Bucky drops to his knees. 

Steve watches, his breath caught in his chest and his eyes wide, as Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of Steve’s cock and then wraps his lips around the tip. He laves the slit with his tongue, still looks up at Steve through his lashes, and then slides down, sucking so that Steve is pretty sure he’s seeing stars. He scrabbles at the bedspread, and when a hint of teeth scrape against his shaft as Bucky pulls up, he gasps and one hand ends up fisted in Bucky’s hair. 

“Sorry,” he rasps, pulling back, but Bucky shakes his head and hums his displeasure. The vibration makes Steve buck his hips, and the hand goes back to Bucky’s head. “Okay,” he pants. “Okay.” 

Bucky works him like he’s the only thing deserving of his attention, and it’s not to long before Steve feels the heat pooling in his stomach that makes his balls tighten and his vision white out. He’s forced to tug at Bucky’s hair and plead for him to stop. 

Bucky pulls up slowly, tongue pressed to the underside of Steve’s cock with impressive pressure, and he sucks hard on the head before releasing Steve’s dick with a pop. He licks his lips and looks up. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen, and Steve almost comes just looking at him. 

“I want you to come for me,” Bucky murmurs. 

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times before he manages, “I want to— with you. I want to come with you.”

Bucky blinks, and then offers him a lopsided smile. “What is this, Captain, a romantic comedy?” 

“Please.”

The humor disappears from Bucky’s face and he nods, then stands. He forces Steve to scoot back a bit farther on the bed, and then he straddles him, his legs bracketing Steve’s thighs. His cock presses against Steve’s stomach, the tip glistening, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He wraps his left hand around the back of Steve’s neck and reaches between them to grab both of their cocks. Steve moans from the sensation and then almost sobs when Bucky dribbles some spit down onto the tips. 

“You tell me when,” Bucky says lowly, and begins to work them both.

It doesn’t take Steve long. He wraps his arms around Bucky, lavishes every inch of reachable skin with open mouthed, breathy kisses. Even though he can’t stop his eyes from fluttering shut every time Bucky swipes his dampened thumb over the tips of their dicks, every time he opens them again Bucky is staring at him hungrily, his eyes roving over Steve’s face like he’s trying to memorize everything. 

“Bucky,” he whispers, swiping his lips over the other man’s, trying to arch his hips against Bucky’s weight that’s pressing him down into the mattress. “God, Bucky.” 

Bucky licks at his lips and pumps faster, erratically. “You gonna come, Stevie? You gonna come for me?”

“Anything for you,” he gasps. 

Bucky grins, and the heat pooling in Steve’s belly erupts. He hisses out a breath as he comes, and as his body quakes, he watches Bucky fall apart on top of him. The other man’s face contorts, fingers gripping Steve’s neck so tightly they’ll leave bruises, and he lunges forward, moaning into Steve’s mouth as he spills himself all over his hand and Steve’s still-hard cock. 

They sit there, both panting, for several minutes, and neither of them say anything. Steve keeps his arms wrapped around Bucky, afraid of him slipping away when he’s only just gotten him back because this is too good to be true, afraid that a single word out of his mouth will break whatever it is they’ve forged against it all odds. He’s afraid that maybe it’s a dream— God knows he’s dreamed enough about Bucky— or maybe it’s a trick. Maybe Bucky is still the Winter Soldier and he’s going to take Steve out once and for all when Steve finally dozes off.

“Gotta let go of me, pal,” Bucky finally grumbles. 

Steve bows his head until his forehead rests on Bucky’s sweaty shoulder. “Do I have to?” 

Bucky scoffs, but he pets Steve’s head gently with his metal hand. “Gotta clean us up.” 

Steve tightens his hold for a moment before he allows his hands to fall away from Bucky’s body. Bucky slides off of his lap, hair falling to hide his face, and he doesn’t look at Steve before he saunters out of the bedroom. Steve feels like he did when he was skinny and sick, like there’s a vice around his chest that’s tightening and cutting off his air supply. 

He doesn’t think he’s been this afraid since he found Bucky strapped to a table Zola’s lab lifetimes ago. 

“Steve?”

He looks up, heart in his throat. Bucky stands in the doorway, a damp rag clutched in his hand. His eyebrows are drawn together, but otherwise, he studies Steve with a careful indifference. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks seriously. “I can, if this is too much.” 

Steve blinks and then stands. “Leave? No, I don’t want you to leave, Buck. I want you here. With me.”

Bucky licks his lips, fingers tightening on the rag. “I have nightmares,” he begins. “I don’t— can’t— sleep much.”

“It’s all right,” Steve murmurs. “Come to bed.”

Bucky does. He wipes Steve down like he’s skinny and fragile, all gentle touches and feather-light kisses to his forehead, then cleans off himself before he follows Steve into bed. Bucky lays stiffly beside him for about thirty seconds before he rolls onto his side, facing Steve, and curls up against him. He sighs, a long, drawn out sound, before the tension on his body eases. 

“You used to be cold,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s chest, his fingers trailing patterns across his abdomen. “All the time, so cold. Used to be afraid I’d never be able to warm you up.”

Steve nods against Bucky’s hair. “Not anymore.”

“No, not anymore,” Bucky agrees quietly. 

He wraps his arms around Bucky and doesn’t plan to let go, not again, not ever, except he’s injured and sated and he wouldn’t be able to push away the deep, dreamless sleep even if he wanted to. 

The last thing he remembers is Bucky’s even breathing. 

When he wakes in the morning, he’s disappointed but not surprised that the bed is cold and empty, and any sign that Steve did not spend the night alone is gone.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those of you who left kudos and comments! I love you all!
> 
> I'm not sure how thrilled I am with this, mostly because I was having a bit of trouble with it and finally just decided to post what I had. I hope you enjoy, either way!

“You woke up over three years ago,” Sam sighs. “How have you not seen Top Gun yet?”

Steve sits on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and watches Sam put in the DVD. Movie night is a weekly occurrence whenever Sam is in New York, that and morning runs around the nearby park followed by pancakes. Steve enjoys it. It’s normal, or as normal as anything in his life can be. Sometimes Steve needs normal, and despite his involvement with the Avengers and SHIELD, Sam is the only person in Steve’s life that fits the bill. Sam is down-to-earth and his expectations of Steve are minimal. Steve thinks it has to do with the fact that Sam’s a soldier himself and has spent a lot of time working with soldiers, but he also thinks that Sam is just a good person. 

“I have to prioritize what movies I watch when I actually have free time,” Steve replies. “I’ve seen most of the Disney films, which is something, I guess.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not. You’re not twelve. You never should have let Stark dictate movie nights, man.”

“Kinda hard to tell him no in his own house,” Steve argues.

“JARVIS would have helped you out if you’d asked nicely.” Sam finally gets the DVD player working— Steve still has trouble figuring it out— and opens the DVD case. “I think you just wanted to watch cartoons.”

“Maybe I did.” Steve cocks his head. “I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing, here.” Steve pauses for dramatic effect. “What if I hate this movie?” 

Sam turns to look at him slowly, face devoid of any expression. “We can be coworkers, I guess. No way around that with the Avengers business. Not friends, though. Never friends.”

“Of course,” Steve says with mock sincerity, keeping a straight face until Sam grins at him. 

Sam plops down on the couch next to him and hits play. 

The movie starts, and Steve is immediately entranced. He likes films. He wasn’t able to afford to see many as a kid, and he and Bucky definitely didn’t own a television. The fact that the television he has now is able the size of a large child still startles him sometimes, but Tony had been adamant, and Steve learned quickly that he should pick and choose his battles with Howard’s son. 

Sam was concerned about him watching war movies when they first became friends, and he didn’t sugar coat anything as he explained to Steve that there were many soldiers and veterans who couldn’t handle watching gory, violent films. It triggered bad memories and PTSD episodes, and if Steve wasn’t up for it, Sam wanted him to say something immediately.

Steve wasn’t effected in the slightest, and this film’s loud bursts of noise don’t bother him, either. He’s actually more affected by Maverick, who reminds Steve of Tony with his cavalier attitude, and he’s not surprised that he’s stuck between loving and hating the main character almost immediately. 

They’re about halfway through the film when a creaking sound, like hinges squealing, distracts Steve from the television. Sam doesn’t seem to notice anything, eyes still trained forward, hand moving on autopilot between the bowl and popcorn and his mouth. Steve shifts slightly and redirects his focus, listening past the sound of jet engines roaring from the speakers.

And, yeah, there’s definitely someone in his bedroom.

Except they don’t come out into the living room. After the soft creak of wooden floorboards beneath weight and the sound of the window closing, there’s nothing. Steve sits rigidly and forces himself to pay attention to the film. He thinks he knows who it is— hopes it’s who he thinks it is— but he doesn’t want to worry or involve Sam in anything if he doesn’t have to. 

When the movie ends, Sam stretches, linking his fingers behind his head. “Man, that movie gets me every time. They’re making a sequel with Tom Cruise as an instructor and I don’t care what Clint says, I am seeing it opening night if it kills me.”

Steve laughs. “I’m glad your priorities are straight.”

Sam studies him for a moment, lips pursed, and he looks like he’s going to say something, but he remains silent. 

After about a minute, Steve shifts on the couch so he’s facing Sam and asks, “What is it?”

Sam raises a brow. “I think we should call it an early night,” he says slowly, then glances at the bedroom.

Steve almost chokes on his own spit. He should have known better. Sam isn’t super powered— no super sight, super hearing, super strength— but he’s smart and perceptive and well trained, and Steve can’t believe he didn’t think Sam would notice.

Sam waits a few seconds, and when Steve doesn’t say anything, he asks, “Nothing I need to worry about, right? I trust you to make the right decisions, man.” He purses his lips. “Well, kind of. Sometimes you’re a goddamned idiot.” 

Heat creeps up Steve’s neck and he exhales a shaky breath. “I don’t think so,” he sighs. 

Sam just nods, and Steve is grateful, not for the first time, that Sam Wilson came into his life. He followed Steve without Steve having to ask him, was completely okay traveling the globe to find a man he had no attachment to, a man who tried to kill them both. Sam knows how important this it, and he thinks Sam would have figured it out even if Steve hadn’t of admitted to him that he was in love with his dead best friend who happened to come back as an assassin. 

Steve also thinks Sam knows this isn’t the only time Bucky’s showed up to his place, but Sam doesn’t say anything, just stands and goes to the door to retrieve his shoes. 

“I’ll get the movies next time I’m here,” he says as he slips on his sneakers. “You can watch any of them on your own except Alien. We’re watching that shit together, Rogers.”

Steve smiles. “Sounds good. When do you fly out?”

“Early tomorrow morning. I’ve got an afternoon talk at the VA I don’t wanna miss.” 

“Travel safe, Sam.” 

Sam winks as he reaches out to grasp Steve’s hand. “You know Stark makes sure I travel in style, man.” 

Sam leaves, and Steve steps back into his apartment, closing the door quietly behind him. He leans against it and takes in a few breathes, holding them for several seconds before he releases them, slow and steady. Sam taught him the trick when he found out Steve had nightmares occasionally, and it works, but it takes him longer than he expects to get his pulse under control this time.   
He turns off the television and the lights on his way to the bedroom, and when he reaches it, he stands there and listens for several seconds before he finally has the gall to actually open the door.

He doesn’t see anyone at first, and his stomach drops. If Bucky was there and Steve missed him—

The covers move.

Heart in his throat, Steve walks towards the bed and looks down.

Bucky’s got Steve’s comforter pulled up to his chin. His eyes are closed, and his lips are parted as he breathes evenly. Steve stands there and stares for what seems like an eternity before he slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. Bucky doesn’t stir, so Steve reaches out and brushes a stand of hair from his forehead. 

Bucky’s eyes open, and it’s not a smile, but his lips quirk in a way that is painfully familiar to Steve, that reminds him a boy he fell in love with so long ago. He tries not to hold onto it, promised himself that he wouldn’t compare because this Bucky isn’t the same Bucky as the one he lost, and he’s tired of chasing ghosts. There is a man in front of him, a man made of flesh and blood and a bit of metal, and he wants him for all that he is, new and old. 

“Took you long enough,” Bucky mumbles and burrows deeper into the covers, hair falling back into his face. 

Steve’s heart flops around in his chest like a fish out of water. He’s in over his head, he knows it, but he manages to say, “I was watching a movie.”

“Yeah, I heard. You always liked watchin’ films. We could never afford tickets for ‘em, though. Snuck in a few times, I think. You weren’t happy about it, but you did it anyway.”

Steve licks his lips and swallows. His throat feels like a desert, and he knows he probably only has a very slim chance of getting this conversation right. “You remember that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says gruffly. “Remembering some things better than others, but still remembering. S’all jumbled, though.”

“I can help—” 

Bucky cuts him off with a sharp, “Not yet.” Then he stiffens before shrugging, and the comforter slips down to expose the top of a bare shoulder that Steve has an overwhelming urge to touch. “Not yet,” Bucky repeats, voice lower. “Wanna on my own, if I can. I’ll ask you, though. If I need it.”

Steve understands, or he thinks he does— as much as he possibly could. It still stings, though, so they sit in silence for a minute, maybe two, before Steve finally digs up the courage to quietly ask, “You going to leave again?”

Bucky inhales slowly, exhales even more slowly. “Maybe. Can’t promise anything. Don’t want to, though, right now. Want to stay here.”

“You can stay as long as you want, but I don’t think I can handle you disappearing without a word for months at a time, Buck,” Steve says with a broken laugh. “Not again, at least.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for several moments, head tipped down so Steve can’t see his eyes, and Steve wonders if he’s fallen back asleep until he murmurs, “Yeah, I know.” 

“I don’t expect you to stay,” he clarifies. “I just want to know you’re fine, is all, want you to know you’re welcome here. Anytime.”

There’s a quirk to Bucky’s lips. “Sure, Ma, I’ll keep you updated,” he says and lifts up the blanket. “You gonna come to bed?” 

Steve uses the opportunity to stand and turn away from Bucky so he doesn’t see the way Steve’s almost falling apart. His eyes sting and the sheer force of not letting the tears track down his face make his head hurt, but he manages even though he’s feeling a million different things and he doesn’t know how to cope with them, not all together at the same time. And he knows he said he wasn’t going to compare this Bucky to the Bucky he knew before, but dammit, Bucky used to do this before the war, groggily lift up the covers when Steve finally dragged himself away from his sketchbook. 

With his hands shaking slightly, Steve sheds his jeans and t-shirt, then crawls into bed next to Bucky, who immediately drops the covers over him. It’s roasting beneath them from Bucky’s body heat. The warmth cocoons his quickly, eases some of the tension from his muscles, and Steve struggles with wanting to press against the man next to him and wanting to let Bucky make the decisions as to where this would go. 

They lay there facing each other and say nothing. Neither of them touch, but they’re still close enough for Steve to feel Bucky’s breath hot against his lips. He tries to close his eyes, to sleep, but the longer the silence looms, the worse the frantic thud of his heart becomes. He doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to scare Bucky away. Except…

“Why did you come back?” he finally blurts out and feels the color rise up his neck and into his cheeks.

Bucky stiffens for a moment, then makes a vague shrugging motion. “Dunno.” 

Steve actually snorts. “That’s not a real answer.” 

Steve can hardly see it, but he can hear the firm set to Bucky’s jaw. “It’s the answer you get.” 

“Buck, I didn’t mean—“ 

“I wanted to see you,” Bucky snaps. 

Steve flinches, surprised by the sudden burst of anger, but his heartbeat picks up speed and something wells inside of his chest that makes it hard for him to breathe. It feels hot, too hot now under the blankets, except he’s afraid that if he tries to kick them off, it will ruin the moment. 

“I wanted to see you,” Bucky repeats, quieter this time. “You happy? Geez, Rogers. So pushy.” 

“Yes,” Steve says, the word breaking. “Yes, I am. Happy.”

Bucky mutters, “Ah, hell,” and then there’s a hand on Steve’s arm, fingers warm and pressing into muscle.

Steve manages to hold back a shudder. “Just glad you’re here.”

“Stevie,” Bucky sighs, and then he surges forward.

They’re in a tangle of limbs and sheets before Steve can properly inhale, but then he doesn’t care if he suffocates because Bucky’s lips are on his and his hands, both of them, are tangled in Steve’s hair. Steve wraps his arms around the lean body that’s half on top of him, splays his hands across Bucky’s shoulder blades, and he kisses him even more desperately when he feels the ridges of smooth scars beneath his palms and fingertips.

It’s more languid and slow this time, and after he’s kissed up and down Steve’s body, focusing on the almost non-existent scars left from Bucky’s bullets on the helicarrier, Bucky gets them off together, flesh hand wrapped around both of their cocks and metal hand pressed against Steve’s chest. Steve stares up at him, mesmerized, his fingers digging into Bucky’s muscles thighs. With the sheets pooled around his hips and a light sheen of sweat covering his body, Bucky is beautiful, and if Steve could talk, he’d tell him so. But he can’t, too wrapped up in the slide of Bucky’s cock against his own, in the way Bucky rubs his callused thumb over the sensitive head. Bucky doesn’t break eye contact, just stares down at Steve, hardly blinking and lips partially open. 

Bucky comes first, and when he does, he groans, head falling forward so that his hair covers his face, and for a moment, Steve panics even though he’s so close because he wants to see Bucky’s face, wants to imprint it into his memory in case this is the last time. Bucky must sense the sudden tension because he looks up, murmurs Steve’s name, and then leans forward to brush his lips over Steve’s mouth, his nose, his cheeks. He licks and sucks along Steve’s jaw, and when Steve arches up, body taunt like a bowstring, Bucky slots their lips together. He kisses Steve through his orgasm, tongue licking into Steve’s mouth as he gasps and moans, hand pumping painfully slow and body weight stopping Steve from bucking up. 

“God, Steve,” he hisses against his lips. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Steve almost laughs, but he swallows it down, afraid it might taper into a sob, and says nothing instead. 

They lay there for a while, chest to chest. Steve likes that he can feel Bucky’s heartbeat, because it’s pounding as quickly as his own. He’s got his face pressed into the crook of Steve’s neck, his breath hot and fast, and his hand, covered in drying come, in holding onto Steve’s hip like his life depends on it.

They clean up eventually and curl up beneath the sheets. Steve’s noticed the bags under Bucky’s eyes, so he runs his fingers through Bucky’s tangled hair until his muscles loosen and his breathing evens out. He wonders when Bucky slept last, really slept, and wonders how he’s going to be able to knowing that he may wake up alone.

Except he does sleep, but he doesn’t wake up alone this time. He doubts it means he’ll never wake up to an empty bed, or that Bucky won’t disappear again, but Steve also knows what it is. It’s a start, and he’s willing to take it.


End file.
